


A Witch In Time

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, Time Travel, Warstan (background), crack!fic, khanolly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-07-03 19:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15825387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: Written for Molly Hooper Appreciation Week. Sherlock's gone missing in time and it's up to Witch!Molly to save him.





	1. A Meddling Witch With A Penchant For Love Spells

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/gifts).



> I received three prompts to choose from. Being unable to pick just one, I thought, why not do all three? Thus this cracky little fic was born. Each chapter will fulfill one prompt. Enjoy!

_ Prompt #1: Magic AU where Mary is a witch with a penchant for love spells, and she decides to "help" Sherlock along into being with Molly but it doesn't go exactly as planned. _

"Oops."

Molly groaned. "What do you mean, 'oops'?" she demanded, turning to face her friend, coven-mate and current pain-in-the-arse Mary 'The Meddler' Morstan.

"I, uh, may have accidentally sent Sherlock back in time. Or into the future." She peered into the depths of her cauldron, brow wrinkled in what her warlock lover John Watson would no doubt consider 'adorable confusion'. She looked up at Molly. "Sorry."

She didn't sound sorry and she didn't look sorry, which would have roused Molly's suspicions if they hadn't already been at high alert. "Well, get him back," she snapped.

"Yeah, see, that's part of the problem," Mary admitted, actually sounding a bit contrite this time. "Not only am I not sure if I sent him 300 years into the future or 150 years into the past, I also might have accidentally erased his memory. Temporarily!" she hastened to add as Molly gaped at her in horror. "It wasn't supposed to work this way," she muttered, returning her attention to the potion in her cauldron.

A hideous foreboding seized Molly. "What, Mary?" she asked, stepping closer. "What wasn't supposed to work this way?"

"It was just supposed to be a simple love potion," her friend replied sheepishly. "Not the bog standard 'oh make him fall madly deeply passionately in love with someone he doesn't have any feelings for' folks usually ask us for. This was more of a designer potion - meant to reveal hidden emotions, force them into daylight, stop them from being repressed and ignored. I guess instead I, uh, created a potion that took ALL hidden desires and made them reality."

Molly felt a little sick, knowing where all this was heading. "So the hidden desire you accessed in his mind wasn't that he was in love with m-someone," she corrected herself hastily, "but instead his desire to get away from that someone."

"Not necessarily," Mary said, laying a comforting arm on Molly's shoulder. "I think that's where the time travel comes in - I think maybe the love potion worked but he also needed time to process it."

"Right, so that explains the time travel." At least she hoped it did. "And the memory loss? Temporary memory loss, you said?"

"That one's a bit trickier," Mary admitted. "But I think it might have to do with him stubbornly refusing to face those feelings, even if he now has plenty of time to do so. Idiot," she added, not quite under her breath.

"Right." Molly gave a sharp nod, rolled up her cloak sleeves, and said, "Send me after him. If nothing else, we can't leave a wizard of his power loose in either the past or the future. Who knows what havoc he could wreak if his memory's gone? With our luck he'll either utterly fuck up the timeline or he'll end up a warlord in some post-apocalyptic hell. Especially," she added with a glower, "since he seems to need an exterior conscience most of the time. And John's out busy cleansing the Afghan efreets that idiot Najeem summoned and you're-" she gestured vaguely at Mary's noticeably rounded belly "-not in the best position for careening through time. Which leaves it down to me."

Mary nodded solemn agreement, one hand reaching down to stroke her belly and further bond with the precious little witch-to-be that still rested safely within her mother's womb. "OK," was all she said. But as she raised her wand and began the gestures that would help send Molly to wherever Sherlock had ended up, her friend was certain she saw a telltale smirk on her lips.

_Of course,_ Molly thought resignedly as she felt the bonds of the time-spell tugging her out of one existence and into another.  _The brat did all of this on purpose. Accident my withered granny's a-_

She vanished from her current like a soap bubble being popped-

...and found herself smack-dab in the middle of the late 19th century morgue.

With herself as the apparent victim about to be autopsied.

By none other than Sherlock Holmes.


	2. How Molly Got Her Job At The Morgue

_Prompt #2: Victorian era (involving TAB or not, your choice) where it explains how Molly got her job at Barts_

There really was nothing else to say under the circumstances, so Molly said it. "Boo!"

The short, plump, bespectacled man standing next to Sherlock gave a scream and thudded to the floor in a dead ( _snicker, snicker_ ) faint. Sherlock, on the other hand, continued to gape down at her, scalpel in hand. She reached up and pushed the handle of the blade away with one finger, enough that she could swing her legs over the side of the table and sit up. "Sorry, I couldn't resist," she said, glancing down guiltily at the unconscious man on the (filthy, gross, disgusting) floor.

Sherlock spared him not a single flick of an eyelash, focusing instead on her. "Watson will recover," he said absently, then frowned and gave a little shake. "Stamford, I meant. He'll give me no end of grief if I get his name wrong again."

A groan from the vicinity of the floor was enough to assure Molly that Watson/Stamford was coming around, which meant she only had seconds in which to a) pull out her wand and b) hold Sherlock close enough to her body to assure that they would both be returned to their proper place and time.

But when she reached out to grab his wrist, he skipped back out of reach and scowled at her. "What is the meaning of this, young man - or should I say, young  _woman_?" he asked in a tone of triumph.

Only then did Molly realize that she was no longer clad in her normal jumper-and-jeans combination, but instead was wearing a set of brown tweeds and a very itchy beard-and-wig combination. Ugh. She'd forgotten that the spell used to propel her through time would handily camouflage her as well. "It's, um, a...prank?" she hazarded, groping as discreetly as possible for her wand. Blast, it was tucked under not only her jacket but waistcoat as well. No time to pull it out before the unconscious man woke up; she could hear slight movements and groans that indicated that she was out of time.

"Stamford, old fellow, surely you're not so missish as to faint at the sight of a reanimated corpse?" Sherlock said unsympathetically as the other man clambered to his feet. "Especially when it's not actually someone come back from the dead, but a university student playing a prank." He scowled at Molly. "A particularly tasteless prank at that."

"Hooper?"

Molly whipped her head around at the sound of her name coming from Stamford's lips. "Uh…" was all she managed to stammer out.

"You know this...person?" Sherlock asked.

"Martin Hooper, isn't it? The new mortuary head Philip Anderson was telling us about?"

 _Go with it, Molly,_  some inner voice encouraged her. "Er, yes, that's me," she agreed, keeping her voice an octave lower and jutting out her chin pugnaciously. If Sherlock announced that she was a woman, well, that would be that, but she made a bet with herself - that he wouldn't give her away until his curiosity had been satisfied.

"Apologies for the prank," she said, offering her hand to Stamford and taking his in a firm, no-nonsense handshake. "It was childish and unprofessional and shan't happen again, you have my word."

"No harm done," Stamford murmured, touching the back of his head gingerly. "Er, if you don't mind, though, could you direct us to the correct body? Holmes - sorry," he interrupted himself, "we haven't been properly introduced. I'm Doctor Mike Stamford, and this is my associate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. But I expect Anderson's told you all about us, eh?"

"Er yes, of course," Molly replied, mind racing. How in Hecate's name had Sherlock established a new identity for himself in less than two hours? It wasn't a spell; she couldn't sense, smell, hear or see any magic on him (tasting him was obviously out of the question and even the thought of running her tongue along his cheek to do so brought a blush to her bewhiskered cheeks). And even in her Victorian disguise, he should have immediately recognized her. Which meant that the memory loss that Mary had warned her about was definitely going to be a problem. "Why don't you fill me in while I, er, wheel out the body for you."

It wasn't much of a gamble, since there was only one other cloth-covered form in the dank underground chamber. This one, thankfully, was the one they'd been looking for; Holmes once again wielded the scalpel, dug out a chunk of something from beneath the flesh of the corpse's left bicep, and muttered something about the game being afoot before rushing out of the room. "Come along, Watson!" he called over his shoulder.

"It's Stamford, you arse!" the other man called back before giving Molly/Martin an apologetic look and racing after his friend - with Molly right on his heels.

She wasn't about to lose sight of Sherlock, and she damned well wasn't waiting around for this Anderson fellow to show up and demand to know what had become of the REAL Martin Hooper.

She caught up to the two other men as Sherlock was climbing into a horse-drawn carriage - a hansom cab, she thought it was called? Maybe - but luckily for her Stamford was still a short distance away. Speeding up, Molly rammed an elbow into his gut, muttered a hasty 'sorry!' and jumped into the carriage with Sherlock, slamming the door shut and shouting for the driver to hurry.

The vehicle lurched into movement, and she took a moment to peel her wig, moustache and other itchy accoutrements from her face and head, flinging them out the window as she did so. "Sorry about your friend, Sherlock, but I just needed a few minutes alone with you so I could - "

"Have your wicked way with me?" he asked, one eyebrow raising in that sardonic motion she knew and loathed. "Really, Miss Hooper - I presume that's your real last name? - such theatrics are wasted on me. I've had my fill of adventuresses, as I presume you're aware."

"Adventuresses? I- no? What are you talking about?" Molly asked, gaping at him like a...goldfish or something.

"You're not about to tell me you're a devotee of Dr. Stamford's lurid little tales? The one he called 'A Scandal in Bohemia' was the most recent to be published in The Strand, I presume that's the real reason behind your male disguise? Honestly," he continued peevishly as she tried to get a word in edgewise, "the past three months have been tedious enough without young ladies attired in men's 'walking-about' clothes flinging themselves at me. Sentiment is the grit on the lens, the fly in the - "

"Ointment, yes I know," Molly finished for him, unbuttoning her jacket and waistcoat while Sherlock did his own gaping-goldfish impression, literally pressing himself back against the seat as if expecting her to launch herself at him. "Oh relax," she snapped as she finally got her hands on her wand and pulled it out with a flourish. Your virtue is safe from me." Unfortunately. "I just want to get you back home, Sherlock, so Mary can undo the damned spell she cast - and explain to me how exactly you ended up stuck in the past long enough to create a new identity!"

She made the requisite gestures and began the incantation, but just as she was about to slide into the seat next to Sherlock in order to ensure they both ended up back home, the cab came to a lurching stop, the wand tumbled from her hand and touched Sherlock's hand – and the last word of the spell was cut off and replaced by a loud 'fuuuuuck…'

...and Sherlock vanished.

Without her.

Molly stared at the empty seat – empty but for her wand, thankfully – and said the only thing that fit under the circumstances.

"Well,  _shit_."


	3. Time Travel To The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, the final chapter of this crackfic. Totally unbetaed and basically a first draft so apologies for any errors. If they're really bad, please let me know and I'll fix 'em up later. Hope you enjoyed this as much as I've enoyed your reactions to it!

_ Prompt #3: Time travel AU to the future (can be a Trek crossover or something else) _

"Well, well, what have we here?"

Molly blinked, bit back a groan of pain, blinked again, and didn't bother stifling her next reaction as the face in front of her came into focus. "Fuck," she said, then breathed it out again as the face in front of hers came fully into focus. "Sherlock? What did you - what happened to your hair?"

She reached up without thinking, brushing her fingers against the slicked back locks with a mournful expression on her face. What had he done to his beautiful curls?

He took her by the wrist and calmly pulled her hand away from his head. "Whoever you are, you have mistaken me for someone else. My name is not 'Sherlock' it's Khan. Khan Noonien Singh."

Molly couldn't help the snort that escaped her nostrils. "Khan," she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "Seriously? And Singh? You're not even Indian!"

"Delightful as this conversation is, my identity isn't the one in question," he growled, yanking her upright and glaring into her eyes. "Yours is. Who are you, and how did you penetrate the most secure compound on the planet? Not that I expect you to answer truthfully, of course, given that you're either a spy or an assassin, but we have our methods of extracting the truth from uninvited guests." His lips curled up in that impossible way they had, like he was part Grinch or something, but his cold smile was even more unpleasant than usual given the threat he'd just issued.

"My name, as you would know if you had your memory, is Molly Hooper," she said, holding his gaze with her own and trying her darndest not to break into a sweat of either fear or arousal. God he was sexy when he was being all threatening and overbearing like this! "I'm a witch, you're a warlock, our coven-sister Mary accidentally cast a spell on you that's sent you careening back and forth through time and affected your memory and I'm here to take you home."

"And where, Miss Hooper, exactly is...home?" he asked, moving incrementally closer. He was still holding her wrist, but distractingly, his thumb was now tracing small circles along the tender skin on the inside, just above her racing pulse. "Or rather, if your words can be taken at face value-" his expression said plainly that no, they couldn't even if she hadn't been able to hear the humoring tone in his voice "-when is home?"

"Early 21st century. 2010, to be exact. Are you…" She paused, cleared her throat, and twitched the fingers of her free hand restlessly, "Are you by any chance a warlord? Of some kind? Here in the 24th century? Because it is 300 years in the future, right?"

"Indeed it is," he purred, leaning his head closer, angling his face as if he was about to...no, surely he wasn't going to…?

Oh yesss, apparently he was. Molly gasped as his lips met hers, then melted into the searing kiss he pressed to her mouth.

A few minutes later her brain finally caught up with her libido; with another gasp, she shoved her hand against his chest and pulled her head back to stare at him. "You do know who I am!" she exclaimed, half-angrily and half- half what, exactly? Disappointed, worried...hopeful?

He had the temerity to giggle at her. "Oh, your face!" he gasped out, releasing his hold on her wrist (and waist, when had his arm gone round her waist?). "You should have seen your face!" He raised his voice in a crappy mimicry of her own. "'Are you by any chance a warlord?'"

She smacked his arm. "You bastard! You- what the- why did- ooohhh!"

Sherlock tilted his head to one side in a parody of a confused pose. "Hmm, which part should I answer first? My parents were married, yes I'm me, I did it because it was impossible to resist and I hope that last 'ooohhhhhh' of exasperation will soon become more of a moan of pleasure. Well," he added musingly, "I say 'soon' when I really should say 'as soon as we get back to our own place and time' because as fun as the 24th century has been - and yes, Khan Noonien Singh is something of a despotic warlord, to answer your earlier question, by the way - I'm really a bit tired of all the ping-ponging about and am more than ready to get home."

He spoke in his usual rapid-fire bursts with barely a pause for breath in between words, while Molly tried to grapple with the fact that a) he'd actually become a warlord (shouldn't have surprised her, she'd predicted it, hadn't she?) and b) he had just propositioned her. After snogging her breathless...and then, she reminded herself crossly, making fun of her.

"Right," she said through clenched teeth, having concluded it was all just him winding her up. "Back home we go. I was going to ask Mary to apologize to you for sending you on such a long, strange trip but you know what? Sod that. And my 'you bastard' statement stands, apologies to your married parents."

She started to stand, to push herself away from him, and to pull her wand from...where was her wand, exactly? Oh, of course. Insult to injury; Sherlock had it thrust through the wide leather belt he wore around his waist. Otherwise his clothing was some sort of black, utilitarian shirt-and-trouser combination, much like what she was wearing. "Molly, I'm sorry," he said, actually sounding sincere as he pulled the wand out and handed it to her. "I just...it's a bit difficult, having an emotional epiphany whilst in the middle of believing yourself to be someone other than who you really are. And the memories came back at a truly inconvenient time, believe me."

There was something in his expression that stilled the sarcastic response she'd been about to make, a tension that she'd never seen before except when he'd been dealing with the rogue sorcerer James Moriarty. "Right," was all she said as she finally stood up. Sherlock rose to his feet as well, remaining uncharacteristically silent as she began the spell that would take them back home.

She was startled to feel his hand holding hers, then realized it was because they needed to be in full contact to ensure they returned home together. "No," he said softly as he reached out, turning her chin so that she was looking directly into his eyes. "It's because I want to hold your hand, Molly. I've been running away from my feelings for you for so long, and even though Mary's spell backfired, it certainly had the intended effect." He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. "I love you, Molly. Please take me home and deflower me?"

His final words startled a snorting giggle out of her, but she smiled at him and nodded as she raised her wand for the final elements of the spell. As the magic swirled around them, taking them back home, she murmured, "I love you too...Khan."

His laughter rang through the halls of the fortress he'd temporarily called home, but when his former minions came running to find him, he was gone.


End file.
